


Taking Back the Crown

by nni



Category: Borderlands
Genre: Drabble, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-28
Updated: 2016-01-28
Packaged: 2018-05-16 21:44:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5842054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nni/pseuds/nni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His eyes lock on someone, far side of the room: tall with pale skin and gleaming metal and entirely too many hands on the lipstick and stilettos slinking closer to his side. Nuh uh, not tonight. Tonight is about him taking what's rightfully his, and that's what he's damn well going to do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taking Back the Crown

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spaceowl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaceowl/gifts).



> for spaceowl again, who suggested [emperor's new clothes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7qFF2v8VsaA) by panic at the disco for handsome jack (which i'd recommend listening to while you read) and now i'm fucked up about it
> 
> this is all your fault
> 
> * * *
> 
> sidenote, this is a weird drabble while i work on a more substantial rhack fic, just to mess with a different style. remind me to never do that again, holy christ.  
> since it's just a drabble it's even less beta'd than usual, so sorry about that

Handsome Jack is  _ back, _ baby.

 

Fashionably late to his own party and dressed to the nines. Anything in the name of a grand entrance, and with the way all eyes lock on him as the doors fly open, grand isn't even the beginning.

 

The king has reclaimed his crown, and it feels  _ so damn good  _ to be back on top.

 

The room is massive, swimming with nameless people important to anyone that isn't him, reclining on velvet sofas and drinking wine older than his empire and sliding hands over thighs while they all let themselves believe they _mean_ something. Dark walls, dark liquor, dark corners for dark deeds, all of it calling his name and falling on deaf ears. Fountains and sculpted ice and everything made of gold and goddamn diamonds, but every eye in the room is on him, looking like they've seen a ghost. Or a god. Either way, they’re not wrong. But he’s so much _more._ Living proof that legends never die. People beg attention on all sides but they deserve nothing, and they get what they deserve.

 

There’s a tumbler full of honey whiskey in his hand, not sure how it got there, fuck if he cares. It sends a shiver through his veins, how good the  _ burn _ feels as it slithers down his throat, swipes another when a server spins past and downs it in one. A heady smoke curls around his tongue, in the air and filling his lungs and everything is so much  _ sweeter  _ when you're really, truly alive. 

 

His eyes lock on someone, far side of the room: tall with pale skin and gleaming metal and entirely too many hands on the lipstick and stilettos slinking closer to his side. Nuh uh, not tonight. Tonight is about him taking what's rightfully his, and that's what he's damn well going to do.

 

Half the room passes in a blur before the silk of a tie slides over his fingers, wraps around his hand and reels his prize in roughly against his chest. The kid's lips taste good, sweet like oranges soaked in syrup and spice, and they feel even better. Tall-pale-and-pretty makes some sort of noise, but it's not a protest so it doesn't fucking matter, not now that those hands are on  _ him, _ easy enough to shut up with sharp teeth in soft lips. 

 

It happens again when they’re in the elevator, his prey pressed between him and the wall, but it sounds so much  _ better _ now, crashes against his ears and rolls down his spine like lightning, sets his skin on fire and surges between his legs.This time he'll let it slide, like his tongue past parted, panting lips. A growl rumbles through his chest, deep and dark and possessive, and everything feels alight, thrumming and wild and urgent.

 

Somehow they stumble to his suite, clothes still mostly on but that changes fast, jackets, vests, pants marking the messy trail to the bedroom, and even naked and exposed he’s no less compelling and dominant. The bed is huge and much softer than his actions, with teeth tugging at skin and drawing dusky bruises to the surface. This kitten has claws, it seems, sharp red lines dragging down his back that make his hips snap forward in revenge. By now it’s both of them breaking the stifling silence of the room, throats running themselves ragged and skin slapping hot and fast against skin. Time slows down as they move faster, propelling them towards the edge, hips and hands and heat and  _ tight _ and  _ hard _ and he’s so close he can taste it. 

 

When it hits, everything goes dim and hazy and and so fucking perfect, mind-numbing and weightless like he’s floating to the vaulted ceiling, and maybe this is what he’d missed most about being in the flesh. Everything is sticky and slick and tingling skin and heavy breaths and light limbs and a voice under him-- beside, now-- saying fuck knows what, but it sounds positive, no surprise there. His breath rattles out, satisfied but not sated, not completely. This is just the beginning, and his lips twitch into a grin. A leg settles heavy over much more slender thighs, weighing them down and keeping them right in their place, caging in his trophy, skin sealed with his mark.

 

Oh, yeah.

  
Handsome Jack is  _ back, _ baby, and it feels  _ so damn good  _ to be back on top.


End file.
